CHAPTER ELEVEN
Six
months later
The three seniors primping in front of
the lavatory mirrors weren’t the most popular girls at Roosevelt
High School, but it wasn’t from lack of trying. They were intensely
concerned about their appearances and getting noticed. But they
were also just a bit too full of themselves and catty for anyone to
really like them. Still, as long as they stayed within their little
clique, they didn’t have to worry.
At least that was the snap judgment of
the woman who entered the girls’ room and briefly interrupted their
conversation. The three girls stopped gossiping and fussing with
their hair to stare at her in the mirror. They probably thought she
was a teacher. One of them whispered to the other two.
“I don’t care,” remarked the tallest
one, a tawny redhead. “It’s between classes. We have every right to
be in here.”
The woman stepped into a stall and
closed the door. But she didn’t sit down on the toilet. She just
stood there, listening to two of them argue about whether or not a
popular teen heartthrob was gay. The third one seemed to be having
a different conversation—with someone else. The woman figured she
must have called another friend on her cell phone.
She flushed the toilet and emerged from
the stall to wash her hands at the sink. She was right. One of the
girls was on her cell phone, and another had just pulled out her
BlackBerry. That left the tall redhead with no one to talk to, but
she was busy applying lip gloss to her mouth.
The woman made eye contact with her in
the mirror. “You don’t happen to know Madison Garvey, do you?” she
asked.
The girl glared at her and shook her
head.
Not looking up from her keypad, the one
with the BlackBerry piped up: “Oh, God, Madison Garvey? Isn’t she
the weird-looking freak with the Converse high-tops?”
“Shit, I know who you’re talking about
now,” the redhead said, rolling her eyes. She went back to her lip
gloss application. “She wears those dorky Converse shoes all the
time. I guess when you look like an albino you have to do
something. She thinks she’s really funny, too. As if. . .
.”
“I hear she used to be a big deal at
James Monroe High,” the BlackBerry girl said, eyes still riveted to
her apparatus. “But she moved here, because her mother died. Now
she’s living with her father and her stepmother. I guess her old
lady got really drunk one night and killed herself—”
“Suicide?” the redhead asked, looking
at her friend’s reflection in the mirror.
“No, she passed out and hit her head on
the toilet or a table or something. Like I say, she was a drunk.
She bled to death.”
“If I had a dipshit daughter like that,
I’d drink, too.”
The one with the BlackBerry
laughed.
“You guys!” the girl on her cell phone
said. “We’re going to be late for Lawson’s class. Remember last
time?”
“Oh, shit!” the redhead said, throwing
the lip gloss tube into her purse. She started giggling, and so did
her friends. The three of them hurried out of the bathroom, their
laughter echoing off the tiled walls.
The woman stood there for a moment. The
tall redhead had merely glanced at her, and the other two hadn’t
even bothered to look up from their gadgets. Kids with cell phones
and BlackBerries had a way of not noticing things around
them.
Obviously, they hadn’t seen under the
far stall door, the feet of another girl—and she was wearing a pair
of green Converse All Star high-tops.
The woman heard her muffled
sobbing.
She knew who was on the other side of
that stall door—a slightly gawky-looking girl whose stepmother
didn’t let her get away with anything.
Madison Garvey’s onetime counselor, Mr.
Corson, would have been happy to know—as miserable as she felt
right now—Kay’s daughter was on her way to becoming a better
person.
“Stop . . . just a sec . . . stop it,”
she whispered, pushing him away. “Did you hear that?
“Hear what?” Rob Sessions asked. The
handsome, blond-haired eighteen-year-old stopped nibbling on her
ear for a minute. He was practically on top of Sarah Manning.
Tangled up in one corner of the couch in the Sessions’ family room,
they had an old Seinfeld rerun on the
big-screen, plasma TV.
This was Rob’s third date with the
pretty brunette, whose breasts—he thought—could have been bigger.
Then Sarah would have been a real knockout. Still, that Thursday
night, three days before Halloween, he was discovering that Sarah
was a good kisser. Damn good.
“Didn’t you hear the noise outside?”
Sarah said, squirming out from beneath him. She grabbed the remote
control and turned down the volume on the TV. “It was like somebody
walking on gravel. Didn’t you hear it?”
Rob shook his head. But there was a
small strip of gravel along the north side of the house—below the
family-room windows. Rob squinted at the darkened windows and saw
nothing. He listened for a few moments. “I don’t hear anything.
Maybe it was the TV.” He leaned over and kissed her. “Now, where
were we?”
He started to fondle her breasts over
her blouse, and Sarah didn’t protest or push his hands away. This
was a very good sign. Rob was beginning to wish he’d sent his best
friend, Luke, home—instead of out to score some beer and pot. Rob
realized he had a pretty good chance of getting laid tonight. And
Luke would be back any minute now, damn it.
He figured once his pal returned with
the brew and the bong-feed, he’d allow him a few hits, and then
give him his walking papers. Luke was a good buddy. He’d
understand. Opportunities like Sarah didn’t come along every
day.
Rob’s parents had left two days ago for
Phoenix to visit his older sister, Cathy, and her husband, Mike.
That left Rob alone in the house for a week, and he intended to
make the most of it.
Last night, Luke and two other friends
had come over. They’d all eaten McDonald’s and drank Thunderbird
while watching porn on the big TV. Tomorrow night, Rob was thinking
of having a bunch of friends over. In fact, word was out all over
Federal Way High School: Party at Rob Sessions’
house on Laurel Lane.
Maybe that explained why the
DEAD END sign at the start of the
cul-de-sac had gone missing this morning. Somebody was playing a
joke. Just two weeks ago, Rachel Porter, one of the most popular
girls in their class, claimed someone had stolen the NO OUTLET sign at the end of Larkdale Court, where she
lived. It turned out Jim Hall and some of his buddies from the
football team had swiped the sign as a gag.
Sarah had noticed the missing sign when
Rob had turned down Laurel Lane in his dad’s BMW on their way here
tonight. She’d freaked out a little. But Rob had assured her that
someone was just probably playing a gag. Besides, together, he and
Luke could take on this Cul-de-sac Killer nut job.
Obviously, Sarah wasn’t totally
reassured, and every little noise outside threw her into a panic.
Rob didn’t mind her being a little scared and vulnerable, except
when it put a crimp in the make-out proceedings.
“Everything’s fine,” he whispered
between soft kisses on her neck. He’d read somewhere once that it
was a woman’s erogenous zone. “Just chill out and relax. . . .” He
started to unbutton her blouse.
That was when he heard the noise,
too—gravel crunching underfoot. Someone was just on the other side
of the windows. “Shit,” Rob said, pulling away from her. “Did you
hear that?”
“Yes.” She sat up. “See? I’m not
crazy.”
Rob gazed over toward the darkened
windows. Again, he didn’t see anything. But he heard the footsteps
retreating. Someone was creeping around out there.
Sarah squeezed his hand. “What is
that?”
Biting his lip, he reached over and
turned off the lamp on the end table so he could get a better look
outside. Sarah wouldn’t let go of his hand as he climbed off the
sofa. He moved toward the windows—with her hovering behind him. He
saw their reflection in the dark glass, and they both looked so
scared. Rob studied the bushes alongside the house. They swayed a
little with the breeze. “Nobody’s out there,” he told her—and
himself, too. His mouth was suddenly dry. He reached up and made
sure both windows were locked.
Rob wondered if Luke or one of his
buddies from last night was trying to punk him or something. “I bet
you anything it’s a gag,” he mumbled. “Luke’s screwing around with
us.”
“What do you mean?” She followed him as
he headed back for the coffee table, where he’d left his cell
phone.
“Check this out,” he said. His hand was
a bit shaky as he speed-dialed Luke. If his pal was right outside,
Rob would hear the phone go off. Luke’s ringer was the first few
bars of Beethoven’s Fifth. Rob crept toward the window again,
waiting to hear that ominous tune on the other side of the
glass.
But it was dead quiet.
“What are you doing?” Sarah asked. “Are
you calling the police?”
Luke’s voice mail clicked on:
“Yo, it’s Luke. You know what to do. Talk to you
later!”
Rob waited for the beep. “What’s going
on?” he asked. “Where are you? Why am I talking to your stupid
machine? Call me back, okay?” He clicked off.
Frowning, he turned to Sarah. “That’s
weird, Luke’s not picking up.”
She was shaking her head. “I don’t like
this. You should call the police. . . .”
“Are you nuts?” he asked. “Just because
Luke isn’t answering his cell phone?”
“Because the dead end sign at the end
of your cul-de-sac is missing!” she said, edgily. “And because we
heard someone outside. Those are both pretty damn good reasons for
calling the cops.” She glanced toward the windows, and nervously
rubbed her arms. “I just want to go home—only not now. What’s going
on out there? I swear to God, Rob, if this is some sort of setup to
scare me, I’m going to be so pissed off at you.”
Rob headed toward the front of the
house to make sure the door was locked. She trailed behind him, her
hand clutching his belt along the back of his jeans.
“If it’s a setup, Sarah, I’m not in on
it,” he admitted. He prayed to God it was a joke. But obviously
Luke wasn’t in on the gag, either.
At the front door, he discovered he
hadn’t locked up after Luke. “Oh, shit,” Rob muttered. He quickly
turned the lock and deadbolt.
He heard footsteps—just on the other
side of the door. Someone was coming up to the front porch of the
house. Sarah heard it, too. She gasped and grabbed his arm. Rob
automatically backed away from the door for a moment.
The doorbell rang.
Rob swallowed hard. He stepped toward
the door again, and checked the peephole. Someone had their hand
over it.
The bell rang again—and
again.
“Luke, is that you?” he called in a
shaky voice. “Stop screwing around, man. Sarah’s scared. . .
.”
She was squeezing his arm, almost
cutting off the circulation.
Rob gazed into the peephole again. It
was still blocked. “Goddamn it,” he muttered.
But then he saw his friend take his
hand away from the security viewer. Luke was standing so close to
the other side of the door that his face filled the viewer. He
smiled this weird—almost maniacal—grin.
“Oh, thank God, it’s Luke,” Rob said.
He unlocked the door and flung it open.
Then he saw the man standing beside his
friend. He saw the tears streaming down Luke’s face—and the
desperation behind that fake smile. The man held a gun inches away
from Luke’s head.
Sarah gasped.
The man shoved Luke, and he staggered
inside, dropping a grocery bag full of beers. With a clamor, the
cans rolled across the front hallway’s Oriental rug and hardwood
floor. Luke grabbed hold of the newel post at the bottom of the
stairs to keep from falling.
Rob and Sarah backed away. Rob hoped
against hope this was some kind of sick joke—that Luke had hired
this icy-eyed stranger and given him a fake gun. But Rob knew his
friend wouldn’t drop a six-pack of beer and let it spill for the
sake of a gag. And Luke’s tears weren’t an act. In the five years
they had been friends, he’d never seen Luke cry.
The man quickly stepped inside and shut
the door behind him. “I don’t want to hurt anybody,” he announced
in a calm, quiet voice. He glanced toward Luke. “Get over there
with your friends.”
Nodding, Luke obeyed him—until he and
Rob were almost shoulder to shoulder. “Please, man,” Luke said.
“Just—just don’t shoot, okay?”
The stranger aimed the gun at
Rob.
His heart seemed to stop beating. He
stood there, paralyzed. Sarah clung to him. He could feel her
shaking.
“Just do what I tell you,” the man
said. “And I promise, I’ll be out of here in twenty-five minutes.
You’ll have a great story to tell your friends at school tomorrow.
Now, I need you upstairs.” A tiny smile tugged at the right corner
of his mouth. “We’re going to get those nice designer sheets out of
your mama’s linen closet and start tearing them into strips. I want
to see how good you are at tying each other up. . . .”
Terrified, Rob backed toward the
stairs, taking Sarah with him. With her face pressed against his
shoulder, she sobbed quietly. “C’mon, man, you’re scaring her,” Rob
pleaded. “We’ll—we’ll cooperate. Just take whatever you want,
okay?”
The stranger nodded. “I intend to.” He
nodded at the light-switch plate on the wall by the foot of the
stairs. “Is that for the lights down here or outside?” he
asked.
“Both,” Rob said.
“Listen, please, you’ve got the gun,”
Luke said, his hands half raised. “You don’t have to tie us up. . .
.”
“I’m not going to tie you up,” the man
said—in a gentle, almost condescending tone that some people used
on kids. He still had that flicker of a smile on his face. “Weren’t
you listening? You’re going to tie each other
up. Now, switch off those lights. I don’t want anybody to
see me at work down here.”
He’s only going to
steal stuff, Rob told himself. Just do what
he says.
Obedient, he reached over and turned
off the lights.
The front part of the house was
suddenly dark.
“Okay, let’s go upstairs,” the stranger
said, with his face now in the shadows. His voice was so
calm—almost reassuring. “Don’t be scared. I promise you, I won’t
hurt anyone. . . .”
Within two hours, nearly every light in
the Sessions house would be on.